


Orange Crush

by TooOftenObsessed



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Citrusdome, M/M, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 13:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14671809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooOftenObsessed/pseuds/TooOftenObsessed
Summary: In which Hermann has a snack, and so does Newt. ;) metrash.jpg





	Orange Crush

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to the amazing GloriaVictoria who is responsible for coining the term Citrusdome and encouraging me to make this a reality.

Someone in the PPDC had managed to track down a moderately legal supply of oranges, which was appreciated all around, as fresh fruit had become tricky to come by. The entire population of the Shatterdome now had one orange per day as part of their standard rations, given out with breakfast. Of course, Hermann Gottlieb couldn't do the sensible thing and eat his orange with his oatmeal like everyone else, no, he had to save it, to _savor_ it, like it was some kind of rare delicacy instead of the most mundane fruit imaginable.

It sat on Hermann's desk, small, round, _orange_ , like an undetonated bomb just waiting to blow Newton Geiszler into a thousand tiny pieces. Sometimes he wouldn't notice until the smell hit him, that bright and tangy scent that conjured up images of safe and sane summers before the war. He’d pause, elbow-deep in some otherworldly monster, and for a moment he’d feel grass beneath his feat and peace in his heart.

Other days, days without new samples, days like this one, Newton was left adrift, casting about for a concrete task, left to poke listlessly through pages upon pages of genetic data displayed on his computer screen. He sat at his desk, fidgeting, distracted, and fought to keep his gaze from falling back on that unassuming goddamn _menace_ Hermann called a snack. 

At last, during that longest stretch of mid-afternoon tedium, Hermann climbed down off the ladder and stepped away from his chalkboards. Newt sat up a little straighter at his desk, furtively watching Hermann’s movements as he stepped back to absently grab the orange off his desk, eyes never leaving the array of unintelligible formulas he’d scrawled across every available writing surface. Hermann’s left hand held the orange, fingers curled gently around it as he tapped his cane lightly on the floor, mulling over some specific tangle of numbers. Hanging the cane on the crook of his left arm, Hermann began rolling the orange between his palms, squeezing slightly as his lips parted to mutter something inaudible to himself. 

Unable to stop himself, Newt edged his chair to the side so he could better peer around his computer monitor; staring openly at Hermann was ill-advised at best, but it was safe to do so when he was engrossed in his work. Probably. 

Hermann sighed, stepped backward without looking, and perched himself on the high wooden stool he sometimes used when he was having a particularly painful day and needed to sit at his chalkboards rather than stand. He balanced his cane against the side of the stool and rested one foot on the bottom rung, propping his knee parallel up and rolling the orange along the narrow strip of his thigh. His other foot remained on the ground, long leg extended for balance, and he at last pulled his gaze from his work and focused on the task at hand.

Newt crept farther along his desk, eyes wide behind the thick frames of his glasses, almost not daring to blink lest he miss a single brush of Hermann’s long lashes down over his cheeks as he peered at the orange. Hermann pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and laid it over his lap, ensuring that his _god-forsaken old-man_ trousers were never in danger. He always started the same way, like he’d mathematically calculated the exact spot to make his attack. Newt licked his lips as he saw Hermann brace his clean and short thumbnail, so different from Newt’s own jagged cuticles and chipped polish, against the pebbled skin and press inward. At first he was resisted, his lips pulling back around gritted teeth, and another small sigh escaped him as the rough exterior yielded. 

Hermann slid his thumb into the rift he’d created, long fingers lightly braced against the exterior as he gently teased the rind away from the flesh of the fruit. Hermann worked the peel away in a spiral, delicately ensuring that it came away in one solid piece. His methodical nature and obsessive need for order manifested itself even here, even in something so simple. His shoulders hunched as he focused on the task, his jaw protruding forward in a sort of contented determination that filled Newt with such a potent blend of fondness and need that he almost had to look away. 

But of course he couldn’t look away; not when Hermann quickly brought his hand to his mouth to lick away an errant drop of juice that threatened his shirtsleeve. At the sight of his tongue darting out and dancing across his bony wrist, Newton clutched the edge of his desk fought to control his breathing.

Hermann remained mercifully oblivious to Newt’s blatant stare, and the slightest of smiles ghosted across his face as he finally freed the last of the rind. He dropped the peel, now curling in on itself, onto the desk next to him. He turned the orange, now bare aside from the whitish pith, and plunged both thumbs into the seam between two segments, working two equal halves free. He balanced one half on his knee, and set to work prying a slice loose from the other. 

Newton remained transfixed, openly staring now, and found that he couldn’t stop himself from wheeling even further around the side of his desk. If Hermann looked over, he’d be caught, well and truly, for he couldn’t well pretend to be working if it wasn’t anywhere near his computer. But Newt didn’t care. He couldn’t even begin to _try_ to care, not when his vision had narrowed to a softball sized point of desire. Not when Hermann was raising the first perfect segment of fruit to his mouth, his lips pursed as he _sucked_ the juice from the pulpy flesh. Newt’s own tongue flickered out to graze his bottom lip again, before he bit down the whimper that threatened to slip between his teeth. 

Just as Hermann turned to set aside the pithy remains of his first bite and break the spell long enough for Newt to retreat, Newt caught the first whiff of citrus, the fragrance again carrying him out of the lab, out of the ‘Dome, out of time itself. Stale air and fluorescent light were overwhelmed by the memory of cool breeze and warm sun; desperation and fear were burned away by remembrance of joys past. 

Maybe it was some kind of regression, something that a therapist would find to be unhealthy, but Newt didn’t give a damn. He was on his feet before he could think twice, four or five steps to Hermann’s perch, and before Hermann could turn away from his desk to see what Newt was doing, he’d caught Herm’s upraised hand by the wrist. Those huge brown eyes caught with Newt’s green ones, opening wider than Newt had thought possible, and a few soft blinks only served to reinforce the impression of fawn-like innocence.

“Newton?” Hermann’s voice was soft; he must have been too surprised to inject his usual amount of venom into his tone.

“You can’t know, Hermann. You can’t _possibly_ know what you’ve been doing to me. With these _oranges_ Hermann.” His voice broke, as it almost always did even when he wasn’t yelling. Hermann blinked several more times in rapid succession, but his brows lifted toward his ridiculous, hideous, adorable haircut in what could only have been understanding. “Every fucking _day_ with the oranges. Nobody’s that cruel.” Without breaking their shared gaze, Hermann’s eyes darkened, and Newt found himself shifting uncomfortably to try to ease the rather extreme pressure his jeans were exerting on his erection.

Newt dipped his head to meet Hermann’s still-outstretched hand, ghosting his lips over the knobby knuckles, then turned it over and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Hermann’s palm. Hermann’s breath escaped in a little sigh, and Newt met his eyes again, this time trying to communicate a question as well as his own pressing need. Hermann’s lips were parted, and Hermann brushed his palm across Newt’s mouth again, lightly, tracing the lower lip with his thumb before slipping it between Newt’s teeth. Newt reflexively sucked, his tongue flicking across the pad just before Hermann pulled it away and replaced it with another segment of orange. 

Hermann’s fingers, slender and graceful, held the fruit to Newt’s lips. Hermann’s jaw worked as Newt caught it between his teeth, cupping Hermann’s fingers with his, relishing the burst of tangy sugar as juice flooded his mouth. Newt took half a step closer to where Hermann still stat, balancing atop the stool with a grace of which few would think him capable. Hermann’s free hand ghosted down Newt’s arm, fingers softly tracing the lines of ink Newt had thought he despised. This touch revealed nothing but admiration, so feather-light it left goosebumps in its wake. 

Newt took no care as he sucked, letting the sticky sweetness run down his chin as he desperately sought for a sign of _something_ in Hermann’s eyes. Hermann’s lip curled, a gesture so familiar and yet, in this new context, so _unfamiliar_ that Newt was almost afraid of what it could mean. Suddenly the fruit was gone, cast aside as Hermann smoothly slid off the stool and bent to Newton’s throat, licking his way up the stream of juice and eliciting a gasping moan from the smaller man. 

Without thinking, Newt braced a hand at the back of Hermann’s neck, relishing the prickly feel of the short hairs there. Hermann’s lips burned a hot streak up Newton’s throat and over his chin, pausing for a fraction of an instant of mutual understanding, and then that beautiful, vulgar mouth slid against Newt’s with a positively unholy finesse. Hermann hooked two fingers through Newt’s belt loop and pulled their hips close, and the obvious hardness felt there combined with the velvety caress of Hermann’s tongue threatened Newt’s very sanity. 

Hermann pulled back, eyelids heavy as he gazed down at his panting lab partner. Newt tried desperately to move his hips enough to gain friction without Hermann noticing, but of course that was impossible. A sly smile graced Hermann’s sinful lips, and he forced all four fingers of his right hand into Newt’s mouth. The invasion wasn’t unwelcome, and Newt happily explored those flawless digits with his tongue, sucking until there was no trace of sugar left. Hermann’s left hand popped the button on Newt’s jeans, and in an instant Hermann had grasped him with a hand slick with Newt’s own spit. 

A choked whine escaped before Newt even had time to register what had happened, one which Hermann quickly muffled with his own lips and a pleased hum. Newt helplessly scrabbled at Hermann’s arms, his back, his head, seeking some purchase that might ground him while the entire world tilted on its axis. Hermann ran his free hand through Newt’s hair, shushing him softly, before fisting his hand in the hair at the back of Newt’s head and pressing their foreheads together. Newt breathed in deeply, trying to stop the the shudder that lingered at the end of each gasp, and he tasted chalk, citrus, and something that could only have been Hermann himself. Hermann’s eyes were dark, determined, and his hand began to move in earnest. 

His touch was light at first, exploring, but his laserlike focus remained locked on Newt’s face, marking every gasp, every twitch, every flutter of an eyelid as he mapped out which touches gained him the best response. Newt could feel himself slipping toward the event horizon, and he desperately cupped Hermann through his trousers. Hermann grunted, baring his teeth in a positively feral grimace; the thought that he, Newton Geiszler, had just broken through the stuffy English composure of one Hermann Gottlieb, well, it was too much. Newt whined again and pulled his head back to warn Hermann.

Those dark eyes held something warm and indescribable in them, something not entirely unfamiliar but still strange, and for the first time since he carried through with this stupid impulse, Newt wondered if something had changed between them. Hermann blinked once, slowly, lazily, and he pressed his thumb along the underside of Newt’s cock, tracing along Newt’s frenulum, and Hermann all but breathed “Yes, Newton” into Newt’s mouth. 

With the solid heat of Hermann in his hand, the way Hermann’s eyes were smiling, and the exquisite pressure of Hermann’s fist, Newt came with a shout, his voice breaking. Hermann hushed him, murmuring praise as he guided Newt’s head to rest on his shoulder, and delicately cleaned him off with the handkerchief he’d somehow kept at hand. 

When he’d regained control of his extremities, Newt nosed into the hollow of Hermann’s jaw, inhaling deeply. There was again the scent of chalk, the neutral fragrance of the antiseptic soap they all used, the faintest trace of orange peel; but as he pressed a kiss beneath Hermann’s ear he detected something else, something mellow and soft, unnameable. Newt found himself pulled somehow deeper into gravity well of the lanky mathematician, and tried to tell himself it was just the post-coital rush of oxytocin. 

Newt fought the urge to suck a bruise into Hermann’s throat, not caring to wonder why he’d want to visibly mark his austere lab partner, and instead lightly nipped down until he’d met with the resistance of Hermann’s collar. Hermann’s left hand rested lightly on the back of Newt’s neck, with his right braced against the desk behind him, supporting his weight as he leaned away from his bad leg. Newton spun away from Hermann, grabbed the chair he’d vacated, and wheeled it over, gesturing for Hermann to sit. 

Hermann, to his credit, managed to do so with dignity; only his mussed hair and obnoxiously tented slacks revealing anything of what had been going on between them. Newton tried to ignore the overwhelming urge to touch Hermann’s face - entirely too romantic a gesture for what this was, surely - and instead he did the only other thing that felt right: he dropped to his knees. Hermann spread his own, and stared down at Newt with parted lips, his tongue and jaw working as though they missed Newton’s own. 

Newton ran his palms up Hermann’s thighs, lightly so as not to make the man self-conscious, and unbuttoned those hideous pleated slacks, glancing quickly up to make sure this wasn’t crossing some invisible line he hadn’t been aware of. The sight of Hermann’s heavy-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks was all the encouragement Newt needed, and he slid the waistband of Hermann’s (dreadfully boring) cotton boxers down over Hermann’s straining erection. Newt groaned at the sight, having never seen anything quite so captivating in his entire life. Before he thought what he was doing, he placed a soft kiss against the side of the shaft. Hermann’s shaky gasp made Newt look up again. 

Hermann was breathing heavily, and his fingers clutched the armrest so hard his knuckles were white. Newton reached up and took both of Hermann’s hands in his, kissing the open palm of one again, and placed them gently on the back of his head. 

“Show me, Hermann.” 

“Newton, I…” 

“Please?” Hermann licked his lips, pursed them, and nodded. He blinked furiously and blushed deeper than before, which made Newt crack a smile. “Shy, Herm?” Hermann gritted his teeth and gave a sharp yank on Newt’s hair, pulling his head backward and leaning over him. 

“Not at all. Merely savoring moment.” Then Hermann just _barely_ kissed Newton, his tongue a dreadful tease, darting away as soon as Newt rose to meet it with his own. Hermann sat back, a satisfied smile on his face when Newt whined in protest. In retaliation, Newt took Hermann into his mouth as deeply as he could with absolutely no warning, and one of Hermann’s beautiful hands left Newt’s hair to stifle a throaty shout. Newton spent a moment or two just enjoying the sensation, trying to pretend to himself that he wasn’t memorizing the taste. The hand in his hair gave a light tug and Newt chuckled, pulling away before taking Hermann in ever deeper. Newt felt Hermann’s hips buck slightly, but when he glanced at the man’s face, his mouth was still covered by the back of his hand. 

Newton slipped back, and reached up to take Hermann’s hand away from his mouth. 

“Stay with me,” he whispered. Hermann nodded, and rested his hand for a moment on Newt’s cheek, his thumb tracing a soft line just under Newton’s eye with a tenderness Newt thought he might never again be able to live without. Before the feeling could threaten to become anything more, Newt ducked his head again and pulled Hermann into his throat as deep as he could, breathing heavily through his nose and using a hand to extend the sensations further. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked, pulling back just a touch, and somehow his gaze remained riveted onto Hermann’s face. 

Hermann’s head fell back, a series of twitches and grimaces and positively animal expressions dancing across his flawless face, all sharp cheekbones and smooth lines. His tongue danced out to touch his upper lip, his forehead wrinkled with concentration, his chin dimpled when he gritted his teeth; he made such a beautiful picture that Newt hummed so low in his chest with the sheer joy of it all. When Hermann began to positively tremble, Newt redoubled his efforts, refusing any attempt Hermann made to tug him off. 

At the last possible moment, Hermann’s eyes came back down to meet Newt’s, brown and green locked together in a primal moment of unity. Hermann grabbed Newt’s free hand again, their fingers clutching together tightly as Hermann gasped Newton’s name as Newt swallowed and slowed. He rested his head on Hermann’s thigh, fingers stroking lightly up beneath the several layers Hermann wore. The glimpse of unmarked skin, pale as moonlight, such a contrast with his own riotous tattoos, was almost too much, and Newt closed his eyes. 

“Ah, Newton?” Hermann shifted uncomfortably under Newt’s head, and with a mumbled “sorry’ Newt rocked back to sit on the floor with his back against the side of the desk. Either Newt was already coming down hard from his afterglow, or his rational brain had crept back into the driver’s seat. He could feel the spectre of an overwhelming loss hovering, and he didn’t know how to stave it off. “Newton.” Hermann was more insistent this time, and Newt finally looked back up at him. His clothing was back in place, his hair was almost flat, but his cheeks were pink and his eyes were bright. He looked downright carefree. 

“Newton, honestly, what got into you?” This was a common refrain in their lab, but for perhaps the first time there was no barb hidden in this question. It was almost gleeful. 

“I dunno, man. It’s just the way you were eating the oranges… the way you do _everything, really_. You’re so methodical and so careful and like every moment is _exactly_ the way you want it to be and I mean it just got so sensual and I dunno maybe I just had an animal reaction or something but look if you could just eat them at breakfast like a normal person I’d probably be fine. Probably. I might have to sit at another table or something and I’m sorry but it’s ridiculous do you even know what you look like -” Hermann cut into Newton’s frantic rambling. 

“I will certainly _not_ be modifying _any_ of my personal habits based on your... discomfort. If you cannot restrain yourself, well,” Hermann smiled, so broadly that Newt almost felt rather than saw it, “so be it.” He stood, offering Newt a hand up. Newt took it, standing shakily, and was swept into a kiss that tasted like sunshine.


End file.
